She's Fine
by dreamoverdrive
Summary: Follows Roy through the episode in which he finds Gluttony strangling Riza. "His mind skips to years ago and he remembers swearing, with the pungent smell of her burned flesh still in the air and her boiled blood dribbling through his freshly ungloved fingers, that he wouldn't hurt her again. That he wouldn't let anything like this happen again."
This takes place during the episode Riza fights gluttony. Enjoy!

* * *

"I've got a customer of my own."

His loud, obnoxious voice shrivels in his throat when the line clicks into silence, but not before he hears the harsh crackle of gunfire. He knows she will be fine, that she's more than capable of handling the situation. It's silly, he thinks, drumming his fingers on his desk as the other members of the force mill about and cast him looks out of the corners of their eyes.

But he can't quite shake the nausea surfacing or the electric feeling in his hands. He closes his eyes to take a breath and think—

 _Blood leaking out in a thick, nearly black pool over the brightly painted red of the telephone booth threshold. He halts, not quite understanding at first, not processing the creeping flood where boots should be standing. He gains his composure, because things like this have ceased to leave him surprised for little more than a split second, and when he focuses he sees—ohgod_ _ **blondehair**_ _blueuniformblankeyesdeadface—_

His eyes open and he's still in the office. His fingers rest motionless on the desk. He feels cold.

"I'm leaving now."

"Sir?"

He's already on his feet, shoving his chair back under his desk. They watch him as he leaves, brisk walk leading him out into the hallway where it develops into a slow trot. He ignores the few voices that call at him quizzically, ignores the practical and calculating part of his mind telling him that he's being disgustingly conspicuous and possibly ruining everything.

This is ridiculous. She's fine.

Nevertheless, he picks up speed when he makes it into an alley. The electric feeling travels up his hands to his forearms and he focuses on the thud of his boots on stone.

She's fine.

* * *

He sees movement writhing behind the window in the late afternoon light and resists the urge to send flames licking up the top of the building. As he slams the ground level door open, listens to it bang against the wall, he considers for what feels like the billionth time how ineffective his alchemy can be when it comes time to protect rather than destruct. Then again, he had always rationalized destruction was the foundation of protection, but it seems like a terribly idiotic way of thinking now that he's racing up creaking stairs with his pulse and very-human adrenaline pounding in his head.

She's fine. She's fine. She's _fine._

He's nearly there, but then above his head he hears the thick sound of body slamming into wall and the sharp, echoing exhale of her shocked pain. And for the first time in awhile, Roy feels the harsh, poisonous rush of fear lacing his veins. He runs faster, feet pounding up the stairs in tandem with the roaring in his head. She's gotten up by now to shoot whatever threw her. He hears barking and blurring haze of his mind rejects it as unimportant, and focuses instead on the sharp crack of gunshots that means she's still fending off an attack.

 _"I get to have dinner and dessert—"_

He finally makes it around the doorway, sees her silhouette and the useless, empty gun clicking in front of her, then sees the fleshy mass of predator with smugness contorting lines of malice into its wide, fat face. The bloody light of the sunset puts its body into sharp relief with the shadows, and Roy sees splotches of blood sprayed on the floor and walls. With a sudden surge of vehement hatred, the electricity races back up his forearm into his hand, then his fingers, then into a surge of heat that coalesces into red flame.

He feels an unforgiving sense of relief as stone and wall splinter and the threat disappears, out of range, out of danger. He can't remember the last time he felt the foreign urgency of such intense fear abating as he turns and sees her sagging in disbelief, staring at the hole he wrought in the building.

Her face is pale, and blood is smeared down the line of her temple and jaw. He can see thick fingerprints coloring into purple disks on her neck, and the electricity leaps back into his hands. He takes a step forward, not quite sure what he's about to say, but then she swivels, eyes narrowing and lips thinning into a razor sharp line.

" _Colonel!"_ He stiffens as she continues, coming to a halt. "Why the hell did you leave your post?"

He feels his own eyes narrow, traveling to the empty gun hanging at her side, and then back to the open fury in her snapping eyes. He can't quite focus as she goes on, keeping his face impassive as he tries to sort the slow-moving, gelatinous muddle in his head.

" _No matter what happened to us, you still could have kept your involvement a secret."_

And then realization hits him, painfully biting in its sudden clarity. All the hoops he had jumped through and ends he had tied up were to keep himself safe, which was their obvious intent. Yet he still hadn't quite realized what his safety could cost, not until he had heard the painful slam of her body against stone and plaster.

His mind skips to years ago and he remembers swearing, with the pungent smell of her burned flesh still in the air and her boiled blood dribbling through his freshly ungloved fingers, that he wouldn't hurt her again. That he wouldn't let anything like this happen again.

How stupid, he asks himself, could he possibly be to not realize that he has yet to keep a single promise to her untainted by her blood and sacrifice?

He can't quite muster up a reply just yet, not sure what to do with this crushing revelation and sense of naiveté. He keeps his face blank, but he can't stop his eyes from tracing down the thinning flow of blood that makes her cheeks and temples seem hollow. He knows she notices when the fury of her face evolves into something tentative. She can see the regret in his eyes, and he knows he can't quite mask it from her, not after the ways they've learned each other. He just wishes she wasn't so determined to forge his path through hell for him, and he hopes that she doesn't hate him when she sees that pointless and false wish in his face, too.

Her face wavers for a minutes, panic flickering across when she glances back to the hole in the wall. "Are you a complete idiot," she asks in a whisper.

She turns back and her eyes bore into him, challenging him to say something about the red line dripping from her face to the floor and the purple disks, daring him to contradict the logic that had lead him to put her (and the others) in this situation in the first place. It makes sense. He knows it. She knows it. It's what they all signed up for. Something hisses in the back of his mind and he masks the sound with the fading pump of over-excited blood. He's just so sick of the logic at this point, sick of the logic that won't let him step forward and fold her battered body into his arms for _just one moment_ before they have to move on.

He takes a breath, and for a split second, he can swear that she knows, and she understands, and the tender, agonizing ache in his own eyes wells up in hers. And then it's gone, because he's brushing off the tension and the subtext of the conversation with pointed bravado and looking anywhere but her face.

"Yeah, fine, fine. I'm an idiot. Are you happy?"

Something in her face has shifted when he sneaks a glance back at her. Something has retracted, gone back behind its walls. And then they're just Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye again, and now there's something strange about it that is strangely painful to think about.

* * *

They're walking down the dark and musty tunnel when he hears her uncharacteristically hesitant voice call to him.

"Colonel?"

He can't keep the brusque tone out of his voice, not without betraying his urge to forget the idiocy of how he's behaved. "What is it?"

"Thank you for saving us back there."

Part of him wants to pause, tell her it's no big deal and remind her how many times she's saved his own alchemy-wielding ass from danger. But the larger, rational part of him refuses to even glance behind him.

"Tell me later. Let's just stay focused on the mission for now."

He doesn't have to wait more than a beat for her assured, affirmative, "Sir."

He forces himself not to remember the image that flashed into his mind at the office—the image of blood-soaked blonde hair drifting across a stagnant pool of red inside a phone booth. Remembering the image would mean saying something that needed to be said, and that couldn't be taken back.

He glances back at her just in time to catch her secretive, soft smile, and something in him screams as he strangles it into silence.

She's fine. That's all that matters.


End file.
